


3:01

by foreverdistracted



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Community: hobbit_kink, I feel like there should be more here but I can't think of any, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverdistracted/pseuds/foreverdistracted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"It's something that you don't ever consider, the sort of three minutes before someone's going to do something as shocking as that."</i> - Richard Armitage</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:01

The pain is his first clue that he's taken things too far. It starts at his neck (a shocking, head-bursting sensation that makes him want to both choke and vomit all at once), and then, a little while later, in his ankle. He concentrates on that last one, because it doesn't make sense to him yet. There is white noise in his ears - people yelling, muffled thumping on the studio floor. The fake ears slipped across his skin again and feel like they're sitting at odd angles. The collective physical discomfort becomes so great that he has to let go of Thorin for a second. Just a few seconds, he promises himself. Pete won't mind.

There are hands propping him up, voices talking all at once and over each other, and it takes a moment for Richard to realize that he's expected to reply. But nothing he says (or chokes out - his voice sounds wrong, and simply gathering enough air feels like a battle) makes the stifling press of hands and bodies go away - "I'm fine," when someone feels around his neck. "Leave it - it's all right," when someone attempts to unbuckle his belt. He tries to get to his feet and nearly topples over. He had placed only the slightest pressure on his right leg, and his ankle instantly _throbbed_.

The relief he feels when he's finally somewhat standing (arm slung over Andy's shoulders, left arm held by Lee, still in costume) is short-lived. People give him space, but he's also frantically herded towards Tami's makeup room. There is a blissful lack of overbearing noise once he's seated and the door is finally kicked shut.

A stranger with a medic's badge prods at his neck. The base of his tongue feels three sizes too large, and any pressure the man places around the front of his throat makes him want to gag.

Peter's voice sounds fast in a way Richard's never heard before. "It's all _red_ , should it be red -"

"It's just mild rope burn. It'll fade." The medic pushes at Richard's chin and tilts his head farther back. He waits ten seconds, just watching, while Richard enjoys the way air is suddenly so much easier to inhale. "Better, yeah?"

"Is he in shock?" Peter, again, when Richard doesn't answer.

"He's fine." The medic gives his arm a sympathetic pat before vanishing from view. Soon, Richard feels careful fingers intentionally pushing against the sore areas around his ankle.

"Peter, a word." 

The new voice is Ian. Richard hadn't even noticed that he was in the room with them. He tries to turn his head to look, but firm hands keep it in place. Tami's, he recognizes, and still smelling a bit of Jack Daniels. He obediently holds still. Traces of the conversation just a few feet to his left keep drifting over to him.

Tami's hands are hot and cold at the same time. He feels like they're the only things keeping his head above water.

"Richard," he hears her sigh, as if from far away. "What are we going to do with you?"

 

Richard doesn't know what Ian said to their frenzied director, but whatever it was had worked. Peter had been insisting "hospital" rather than a normal, supervised house rest like the sensible medic had suggested, and it didn't take a stretch of the imagination to guess why.

Supervised, apparently, means the medic comes by a couple of times throughout the day, and people from the production are allowed to visit. Richard had the story prepped before his first visitor arrived - he had misjudged the distance (untrue), his foot had slipped on the boulder (untrue), and he hadn't heard Peter yell "Cut!" before any of that had happened. That last bit is true, engrossed as he had been in Thorin's debilitated mindset, but it doesn't matter. What matters, for everyone to stop looking at him like he's damaged, is that none of it had been Richard's doing. That there had been no choice. It had all been an accident.

Oddly enough, he only had to tell that polished story to Martin. Everyone else kept skirting around the issue or just refused to touch it with a six-foot pole, but trust their lead star to do the exact opposite. "I'm not supposed to ask you about what happened, but fuck that. What in God's name went wrong?" 

He was the third visitor during his first day of break. The first two had been Stephen and Graham, and neither drilled him on what had transpired, though Graham had insisted on checking on the neck bandage. "You learn a thing or two," was all he'd said in terms of medical credentials, after assuring Richard that while there was grazed skin, with some care, there was nothing there that would scar. Both had seemed genuinely happy that Richard was all right, though Richard could feel the sheer curiosity practically radiating from Stephen, and it had made the whole visit uncomfortable.

Martin was a relief, after that. And, in a way, Richard was glad he'd asked. He got to tell his rehearsed story, and he learned in turn that visitors were instructed by the medic (if he _is_ a medic - Richard is starting to suspect that he's some sort of actor psychologist) not to mention or ask about what had happened. Martin, bless his chatterbox soul, will hopefully relay Richard's version of events to the rest of the cast, and he hopes future visits will be less strained.

The next day brings Tami, Jed, and James, and those three arrive with gifts. The Pinot Noir that Tami brings is especially welcome. Richard knows from how the visits go that Martin had somehow done his magic, and everyone had been duly informed.

The day after brings more guests, and Richard is amused to note that the young ones come as a pack. Adam, Aidan, Dean, Orlando, and Lee, armed with groceries, snacks, movies, an X-Box, and someone's unfortunate baby that Adam is apparently supposed to be babysitting. Richard feels scared for a moment that he'll be saddled with trying to entertain five hyperactive handfuls (not counting the baby), but Lee quickly takes the role of self-appointed events planner and redirects their collective youthful energy into activities that Richard isn't obligated to partake in. The X-Box becomes rather popular that day.

Richard's glad enough to retire to his kitchen, where Orlando fusses over Richard's lack of proper cookware, and Aidan steals bites out of the mountain of boiled shrimp on the counter when the cook isn't looking. The laid-back atmosphere lulls Richard into monosyllabic responses while the two young men discuss early career choices, a topic he's happy enough to listen to and not involve himself in. When the conversation turns to auditions - how Lee apparently just _loves_ going to them, according to Orlando, and Aidan's sheepish admission that Peter called him out of the blue and asked him to drop by to read for Kili's part - he makes sure he has a cup of hot tea in his hands to fiddle with and sip and hide his face behind.

He tries - often, and usually successfully - not to begrudge these younger actors the ease with which they've entered the industry. And it isn't as if they haven't had their share of misfortunes. But it's difficult, some days, like it is now. He still bears the calluses on his hands and knees from when he spent months fixing pipes or laying down tiles on the ground. Both men seem content to let him sip his tea and appear attentive, and he wishes he had more good experiences to tell, strokes of fortune to regale and embellish. But the ones in his life that come even remotely close involved things going to an all-time low first, and this doesn't strike him as something others would like to hear much of.

Listening to Aidan's audition stories - not just on how he got Kili, but of other things, other roles - makes him think of primary school, and watching adults give extra dessert to his classmates because their eyes sparkled when they smiled, because they were small and cuddly, because they were all these things that Richard wasn't, and if Richard wanted anything, he had to go up and ask for it.

He frowns at the direction his thoughts have taken and tries to wilfully veer away from it. He's in _good company_ , he reminds himself. There's no need to ruin that.

He notices the sudden silence in the other room, however, and a vague sensation of something being wrong tugs on his awareness. Orlando catches his concerned glance and holds up a hand to halt Aidan's nattering about the differences between vampires in Britain and in America.

"What?" Aidan asks, frowning deeply, at the same time that three loud knocks sound from the kitchen door. 

Richard shares a confused glance with Orlando. Aidan scratches his head. Loudly, he says, "It's, er, open?" 

The door is pushed in to reveal Sir Ian McKellen, dressed simply in a mauve shirt, brown coat, and tailored brown pants. He gives a bright, familiar smile to Orlando and a nod to Aidan. Richard resists the urge to fidget, hyperaware now of the orange shrimp stain on his wrist, and the frayed edges of the old cardigan he picked to wear that day. Beyond the venerable actor, he can see Adam's curious, wide-eyed face peering from in front of the television set, his game controller sitting unattended in his hand.

"I would like to have a word with Richard in private, if you two don't mind," Ian says, after quick greetings are exchanged. 

Orlando sets whatever it is he's cooking in the crock pot on simmer and leaves for the other room. There's something in the speed with which he vacates that sets Richard's alarm bells ringing. Aidan still looks confused and gives him a private "glad I'm not you" look before he turns to follow.

There is an odd moment of silence after the two younger men leave. Richard awkwardly stands and draws a seat out as invitation for Ian to sit, with a polite offer of tea, but the older man waves it off and instead leans against one of the kitchen counters. His expression remains benign, but one can never really tell with Sir Ian. He can be wearing the most pleasant of smiles while verbally laying waste to your entire family lineage. Richard had been witness to it _once,_ and that had been one time too many.

"You look well," Ian says, when Richard is comfortable. "How's your foot?"

"Healing." He shifts a little, feeling irrationally defenseless under Ian's blue stare. "Thank you. For not letting Pete stick me in a hospital."

"It would have been harder to talk to you in a hospital."

Richard wonders briefly if it's a joke that just flew past him and whether or not he should at least smile. If Ian heard the sincerity he'd tried to pour into his words earlier, he gives no indication of it. "What about?" Richard eventually asks, although dread is already a steady, coiling thing brewing in his stomach.

"I'm sure you know." Ian's voice is tentative, but not careful in the way Graham's was. His gaze roams Richard's face, as if searching. "You didn't have to let things go that far."

"It was an accident..."

Richard's voice lamely trails off. It is instinctual, the need to deny, but Ian's expression changed when he spoke. The vaguely insulted look he's giving Richard fills him with embarrassment.

"Richard," he begins, heavily, and the inferred "I'm only going to say this once" couldn't have been any clearer if he'd been using a megaphone. "I will talk, and you can participate _reasonably_ , or I will talk, and you can listen. Are we clear?"

It takes a precious few seconds for Richard to debate whether he is simply being admonished, or if he's honestly being given a choice. Until he realizes it's not exactly an either/or affair, and Ian is doing both. 

He can do little else but give a tight nod and fix his eyes on the kitchen counter beneath his hands and his cooling cup of tea.

"I saw the first draft of what they'd salvaged from that fiasco early this morning," Ian says, light and friendly, as if Richard isn't on the verge of folding in on himself, "fresh from the editing room. Fran wants it in the extended edition. It was brilliant, of course. Quite an authentic performance." 

Richard swallows carefully. He's done good, then, he thinks, and feels warmth creep up to his ears from the praise. Philippa had wanted two experimental scenes for the Mirkwood dungeons - one with a noose, and one with a sword. Perhaps this means he won't have to do the version with the sword anymore. "Thank y-"

"I asked them to delete it."

His eyes snap to Ian's in an instant. The older man's expression remains stern. Unyielding. " _Why?_ "

" _Because_ , Richard, to reward anyone for what occurred would be irresponsible." Ian's gaze is piercing. He appears impervious to the hurt Richard knows must be showing on his face, and Richard wishes he would stop saying his name like that. 

"And this is _not_ the first time something like this has happened, is it?" Ian continues. "Philippa is such a big fan of that spy show you did back home. Quite the inspiration for this dungeon scene, if I recall correctly."

"We can re-shoot." His voice sounds desperate. His stomach sinks when Ian shakes his head. "I'll be _careful_ -"

"I'm sorry. But the scene is being re-written."

Richard angrily averts his gaze back to the countertop. That was that, then. A scene that he had prepared extensively for, that he had _liked_ , because Thorin's madness is often too abstract a thing and this had grounded it for him - eradicated in a weekend. "It didn't have to come to that," he whispers to his hands. He makes them clench around his cup because it is in reach, and the lukewarm heat can still penetrate his palms.

The silence that settles is loaded and uncomfortable. Richard knows he should say something agreeable, something to lighten the mood - this is Sir Ian Fucking McKellen in his kitchen, and one does not simply subject the man to a fit or to awkward conversations. But all that comes out is a quiet, "Will they really remove it, even if I ask them to reconsider?" Spoken slowly. Carefully, so it doesn't sound too broken.

"Yes." A brief pause. "Or rather, they will because my threatening to quit holds a lot of weight in this production, doesn't it?"

The forced, light-hearted tone sets Richard on edge. He doesn't want to think cruel things of Ian. He bows his head, rubs a hand across his mouth, and hopes he won't say anything he'll regret later.

He stiffens when a heavy hand settles on his shoulder. Ian's presence beside him is warm, and Richard's traitorous thoughts come to a grinding halt.

"It only takes one slip, Richard, to _slide_." Ian moves a little to stand in front of him, bows a little to try and catch his gaze. Richard feels confused and miserable, but he meets the older man's eyes anyway. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

_No_ , he thinks. No, he doesn't, and he wonders if his body language just betrayed his answer. Sir Ian McKellen is looking at him and emanating pure disappointment, and that is just not part of any of his current or future life goals. He nods and hopes that is convincing enough to make him stop.

He's saved from any further response when the door suddenly creaks open. Orlando's curious head peeks in. It lingers a little too long for comfort on Ian's hand resting on Richard's shoulder. "Okay if I get some water?"

Richard wearily nods. Ian gives a welcoming smile and gestures to the fridge. 

"And well," Orlando awkwardly says, while he gathers several plastic bottles, "the guys were wondering if things were okay in here."

"As you can see for yourself, Richard is currently without trousers and I'm having my wicked way with him against the stovetop." The smile he flashes Orlando is every bit as wicked as his humor, Richard thinks, and he can't help but echo Orlando's snicker. "Feel free to inform the others."

"Classy as always, Sir Ian." Orlando grins knowingly at Richard. " _Don't_ let him bully you."

"Too late for that," Richard mutters, half-teasing, and he smirks when the hand on his shoulder pushes him playfully.

They both watch Orlando depart, both arms loaded with bottled water. Richard chances a glance at Ian, who meets his gaze with an amused smile and a held up finger. Richard can almost see him counting the seconds. Shortly after, distraught yells echo from the other room, loudest of which are Adam's "TMI! TMI!" and Aidan's "There's a fucking baby in here, come on!"

Ian seats himself beside Richard. He leans back in his chair and gives a hearty, open laugh. "Young people are so easy."

Richard's own laugh is polite, if not entirely unrestrained. He feels silly still nursing his cup of cooled tea, but it gives him comfort in the face of Ian's overwhelming presence. The man can certainly take up the space of a whole room if he wants to.

"Did you know, though... I used to be enamoured with actors like you, back in the day." 

He is thankful he hadn't been drinking, because he's sure he would have choked after that. "I'm sorry?"

Ian makes a contemplative "hmm" sound in his throat. "Not 'you,' you. But you know what I mean. All fire and intensity on the public stage, after spending an eternity just delving into the character. Like waiting for a lit firework to explode." He braces an elbow on the table and rests his cheek on the back of his hand, all fond look and impish grin. "Quite intoxicating."

Richard is of the opinion that there are very few men who have the right to still look cute after a certain age. Ian seems to belong to that exclusive number. He feels a bit of his own daring rising to the challenge, and he lifts his gaze in that way that Annie told him could ignite underwear if he used it more often ("Your eyelashes, babe. You don't even have to wear mascara, how unfair is that?"). He asks, in a voice as innocent as he can manage, "'Used to'?"

"Why, Mr. Armitage!" Ian laughs. "Maybe when you start listening to my advice, you can ask me out for a drink." He reaches over and pats Richard's hand - twice, brief and fatherly. "I may even say yes."

"What happened to them?" Richard is curious, despite his better judgment. "The people you 'used to be enamoured with'?"

Ian shrugs. "They had a tendency to either self-destruct or piss me off. Both, at times. Nasty business."

_Oh_. Richard feels himself deflate a little. Ian's observation of him continues in silence - uncomfortable for Richard, but he doesn't know what else to say, so he bears it quietly.

"I think, perhaps, you've been asked too often to dig into your dark side," Ian says, eventually. "Martin tells me a script arrived for you last week. What is it about?"

_Martin._ He firmly presses his lips together - the only sign of displeasure he'll allow himself at the moment. "A tornado-action thing. I haven't had a chance to look at the script yet."

"That sounds brainless and utterly delightful. Bring it to my place when you're done with all this house arrest business. We'll go through it and see if it's what you need."

"What?" He frowns, confused. "I'm not under house arrest -"

"You're under house arrest. People are just too polite to tell you." Ian starts to stand. Richard is about to as well, but stops because Ian is reaching over and pressing fingers against his jaw, where the bandage is just shy of covering his jawline. "You let this heal," Ian is saying - Richard has trouble concentrating on his words with his fingers pressed against his skin like this, "...and then you start taking care of this, because no one else can do that for you." As he speaks, Ian moves his hand to Richard's shirt- and cardigan-covered chest, settling right over his heart.

Underneath the bandage, Richard's throat tightens. Under Ian's hand, the rhythm of his pulse slows and calms. Richard nods. Ian removes his hand and gives him another pat on the shoulder.

He wants to see Ian out, but the man is already at the door, and he feels exhausted and weightless in a way he hasn't felt since he was very young - when the world was little more than a vague promise of love, dreams, and better things.

"Who wants sloppy seconds?!" Ian shouts at the poor, unsuspecting young men in the other room. Amidst the tangle of horrified yells, Richard hides his face behind one hand and laughs.

\\\\\End///

**Author's Note:**

>  _"It was just a stage direction: 'Lucas North considers hanging himself.' But then, the director put a camera in the room and said, 'Okay, you take as much time as you like. You find your way onto a chair and put your head in a noose.' That was really difficult, because it's not just a question of standing on a chair and putting your head in a noose, it's, psychologically - how does the character get to that point in the room, you know? It's something that you don't ever consider, the sort of three minutes before someone's going to do something as shocking as that. What's going through their mind, and I kind of had to try and achieve that."_ \- Richard Armitage, transcribed from a video interview about Spooks
> 
> _"He's so broken, he almost hangs himself. It's weird, you're in the zone, really upset, and then the director goes: 'Cut!' You're like: 'God, I could actually have done that.'"_ \- Richard Armitage on his character Lucas North, Oct 2009 issue of Closer
> 
> Also a fill for this lovely anon prompt in the kink meme (which needs more fills, please): _"Listening to Richard talk about Ian just gives me (probably unfounded) vibes that he has a big fucking crush on the man. So anything on this pairing, please! It helps that Ian's in Richard's list of three people alive or dead that he wants to have dinner with IRL. Can be sweet and fluffy or hot and spicy, up to fillernonnie!"_
> 
> Bow-wrapped Richard & chocolate ice cream to my long-suffering proofreader.


End file.
